Skin Like Silk, Face Like Glass
It’s not winter but it feels like winter. Not winter from a snow globe and warm fires and soft layers but that different sort of winter. Distant, cold, tender. Winter in breaths of air frosted on windows, on fingertips and eyelashes that quiver with the wind, and the welcoming of the caress of warm air, indoors, anywhere. Fumbling for keys and misplaced pens and notebooks and adjusting this and that. But it’s fall. And I know, I know, I write about it a lot, too much, but I can’t help it–it’s in the air, the room, the covers on my lap, the words falling from countless pairs of lips.
Lately I’ve been preoccupied with the idea of “pretty” writing–language for language’s sake, songs for the loveliness they provoke, experiences because they match the versions played in my head. I’ve been dreaming in other worlds too, complex and vivid, and terrifying, most of the time, ghosts of little children and vengeance and blood spilled on board ships–it just sounds bizarre, explaining it, but in those foggy moments in between dreams and consciousness, the full potential of these dreams come alive. And I hardly want to wake up. Not waking up from nightmares, really? Yes, it is like watching the most absurd surreal horror films in my own sub conscious. And there is beauty in the morbid and terrible.
And what else. Lately I’ve been trying not to play the aggressor-so to speak. Letting things happen, and not worrying if they don’t. Of course since picking up that approach lots of (unexpected) things have started happening. And I’m going to have to remain vague, for now, anyway. Vague and abstract. My old friends. Sing, muse, of these impossible to capture thoughts that drift, shadows fluttering across my eyelids before bed, bitter sweetness that sinks in between my lips, tinting my teeth. Sing of the burning eyes and a heart that won’t stop shaking for whatever reason. Sing and sing and make it go away, like my broken headphones, my broken phone.
It’s easy to forget how easily disconnected I can become, one little technical error and I’m without contacts, without constantly reachable friends. It’s just a minor thing, of course, easily fixed, but it’s a nice reminder. I know, this season sends most people tottering toward another’s hand, fingers laced together and heads nestled on shoulders, two shapes on one bed and lips that mingle, but I think I like it just as well alone. Even without headphones, or a working cell phone. Without distractions and just this, embracing this, the dreams and the thoughts and the visions and the sensations that cling to my skin.